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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142408">Call My Bluff</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike'>lucky_spike</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Based on a Tumblr Post, Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), half the fun of being immortal has to be the fact that nobody ever believes you</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:20:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>962</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142408</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A retail employee jokes that they're immortal. Crowley loves a joke.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>She intends it as a joke, he’s sure: “That’s £12.57. Oh, hey 1257! That’s the year I was born!”</em></p><p>  <em>She intends it as a joke; he can feel the mischief heavy in the air around her. He may be retired, but he’s still a demon, after all. So he sees the joke, grabs it, and runs.</em></p><p>  <em>“Were you?” says Crowley, handing over a sleek black card to the almost-certainly-not-764-year-old human working the register. She laughs, and he smiles.</em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>140</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Call My Bluff</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She intends it as a joke, he’s sure: “That’s £12.57. Oh, hey 1257! That’s the year I was born!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>intends </span>
  </em>
  <span>it as a joke; he can feel the mischief heavy in the air around her. He may be retired, but he’s still a demon, after all. So he sees the joke, grabs it, and runs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Were</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?” says Crowley, handing over a sleek black card to the almost-certainly-not-764-year-old human working the register. She laughs, and he smiles. “Not many of your kind left around - I seem to recall the Flood taking out an awful lot of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She swipes the card and pauses, looking at him quizzically. “The Fl - oh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ha</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Well.” She hands the card back. “Suppose I’m the one that got away, hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, ancestors must have gone to China, right? I heard a few managed it.” He tucks the card back away into his pocket, and picks the paper bag of baked goods up off the counter. He does not intend to eat a single one. “Do you know - did they go the north or the south route?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs again, and his grin gets wider. Being a demon, one might assume he would also start to appear more predatory, but no: this is just a good bit of fun, and he keeps his incisors short and dull and human. “You know, they never said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“India probably.” He nods. “Not called that then, of course. I didn’t travel that far east much - preferred north Africa, honestly. Did they ever head that way afterwards?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To … Africa?” she stumbles for the first time. “Ha. Yeah they … Actually -” he can see the moment she realizes she knows nothing about ancient Africa, and to her credit changes track without falling out of character too much. “Uh, no. No, they pretty much came to England right after, of course, and my whole family’s been here ever since.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens the bag and makes a show of inspecting its contents. “Didn’t get here until oh, probably somewhere in the fifth century, myself. When did King Arthur get crowned? Wasn’t long after that I moved …” He trails off purposefully, affecting a faraway look. “Late fourth century, I think. Maybe early fifth.” He shrugs. “Anyhow, sounds like they beat me here, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She swallows. She’ll be uncomfortable soon - it’s already creeping in at the edges, and that’s no fun - but she still plays along a bit. “Yeah, well, early birds get the worm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suppose they do.” He makes a face. “You would’ve been just a kid in the 14th century then? Eugh. Awful time to be a kid. Awful time to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the bloody fourteenth century, all horses and bad beer and mud everywhere. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>geese</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” She cannot miss </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>look of utter distaste, nor can </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>hide her utter confusion. “Bloody geese. They were </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful</span>
  </em>
  <span> around the beginning of that century - I was on a thing in Essex, and there was this cliff, I was meant to be out tempting Albert Something-or-other to -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley?” He stops, frozen in place for half a beat, and then turns to the door. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Angel</span>
  </em>
  <span>? What’re you doing -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just heading to the park to meet you.” Aziraphale </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s been up to something - he always knows - and the angel turns his attention to the young human woman. “Is he bothering you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er -” she starts, mouth slowly starting to form the word ‘no’, but Aziraphale cuts her off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need to lie, dear, that was answer enough.” He looks back to Crowley, disapproving and severe. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unconsciously, Crowley points at the register human. “She started it,” he says quickly. “Said she was born in 1257.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale pauses, takes stock of the two standing across the register from one another - demon and human - and then chuckles. “She was </span>
  <em>
    <span>joking,</span>
  </em>
  <span> dear. Honestly. Humans don’t live that long anymore.” He holds out his arm, and Crowley grumbles before crossing the bakery floor to loop his own skinny arm around Aziraphale’s elbow. “So sorry,” Aziraphale says to the young lady behind the register, who now looks absolutely floored, her mouth hanging open. “Won’t happen again. Have a lovely afternoon. Pip-pip!” He spares her a little wave, and then leads Crowley out into the street; the warm afternoon sunlight feels pleasant, even with the press of the post-work rush all around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re a block away from the bakery when Aziraphale says, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Crowley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, just a bit of fun, angel. She’s alright.” And, indeed, she is, because after the young lady recovers from her shock enough to take note of the counter, she is </span>
  <em>
    <span>even more confused</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but pleasantly so, to see a £100 note sitting in the tip dish. “And she </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> start it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, you didn’t have to carry on about the fourteenth century, you old serpent. Don’t give me that look - I know you well enough to know what you were doing,” he adds, when Crowley glares. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> know </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> well enough,” says Crowley, swerving gently to the right so that he bumps up against Aziraphale’s shoulder, “to know you </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely meant</span>
  </em>
  <span> to hammer the whole bloody thing home at the end there with the whole ‘humans don’t live that long anymore’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel looks affronted. “I never did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely</span>
  </em>
  <span> did, you bastard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did not.” As if for the first time - as if it isn’t a convenient change of subject, more like, Crowley thinks - Aziraphale takes notice of the little paper bag of treats Crowley is carrying. “Oh, you were getting food, not coffee. What did you choose? Let’s have a look.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley hands the bag over. “Yeah, alright, angel,” he says, loud enough only to be heard by Aziraphale over the grumbling of the traffic and the angel’s own delighted humming, “Have a look.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fic was completely inspired by <a href="https://vampireapologist.tumblr.com/post/159925828613/vampireapologist-idk-if-ive-posted-about-this">this post</a> from tumblr user vampireapologist. I saw it float across my dash, took the concept, and ran.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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